'As long as it takes'

On June 2 last year, Brian Haw travelled to Westminster to protest against the west's treatment of Iraq. Last night, 477 days later, the former merchant seaman and father of seven was still there. What fuels his quixotic vigil? Craig Taylor joined him - and the mice - for 24 hours to find out

September 18, 12pm Brian Haw is out doing what he does, the only thing he does, which is protesting for peace in front of the Houses of Parliament. It's what he's been doing for 476 days running, and he's on the street now, with both feet over the yellow line while black cabs grudgingly make their way around him. He's singing a song of protest to a small television crew from Austria, moving his hands in rhythmic circles. His mug is from Starbucks, though the emblem's been covered with electrician's tape. He likes to say he looks like Clint Eastwood on a good day, and this is a good day, sunnier than expected. His shirt reads: Don't Attack Iraq.

Up the pavement, past Brian's banners, are protesters from the Countryside Alliance. They've had representatives here for more than 100 days and the coexistence has been peaceful. The sign they've propped up reads HOOT 4 HUNTING, and the occasional car is duly hooting back.

2.20pm

The hooting continues. Each hoot is noted on the Countryside Alliance's clipboard with a stroke. At Brian's end of the pavement a Vauxhall pulls to the kerb and a grey-haired man leans out. "I want you to take these signs down," he yells at anyone before it becomes apparent that Brian is the man he is speaking to. Brian stops rolling his cigarette. "Don't you have anything better to do with your life?" the Vauxhall man asks. "You can't even afford a packet of cigarettes." Brian stops rolling. "You're dirty. You talk to yourself. You scratch yourself."

"I scratch myself?" asks Brian. The cars behind are hooting.

"Take that sign down about Israel," he says, pointing to the one that says: End Israeli Occupation. "Or I'll be back in 10 minutes to take it down myself."

"I'm not taking any of the signs down," says Brian. "What don't you like about the sign?"

"I don't like any fucking Arabs," he says, stabbing the air. "And I don't like Muslims."

"Then you're a racist.'

"You don't... "

"You are a racist, sir."

"You don't know anything. I have two kids in the Israeli army. I've got two kids. And I say let Bush do what he has to do. And you close your mouth because you're a dirty, disgusting... Sometimes when you get a bag of apples... "

"How do you know I'm dirty?"

"You get a rotten apple. So you get rid of it."

A hair-gelled teen has appeared on the sidewalk - Reebok shirt, flipped collar - and stands with his arms crossed until the Vauxhall man finishes stabbing the air, then says: "He's right. We have to take out Saddam."

Brian turns to him. "Where did you hear that?"

"In the papers."

"What papers?"

"The newspapers."

"This dirty man." Now Vauxhall is looking at me. "He's ignorant." Back to Brian "Your brain, my friend, needs an MoT. You need to go back to the cardboard box you came from."

A cartoon bear is dangling from the rearview of his Vauxhall Astra. On the back is the bumper sticker. "What do you mean Do I swallow? There's 200 calories in that."

"Do you want this job?" Brian asks me after the Vauxhall pulls away. The tooting continues from the Countryside Alliance. Another 211 bus slides by and the air gets thick with exhaust.

2.30pm

"Scratching myself?" Brian says to no one in particular. The rolled fag is now lit, and he points it at the cameras that sit atop most of the buildings around Parliament Square. "Ask them if they have one recorded instance of me scratching myself. These people in their cars call me 'wanker'. Oh no, my friend, I've got hours of CCTV to prove them wrong."

Brian is 53, and was born in Woodford, Essex. He went into the merchant navy to support his family a year after his father killed himself, eventually saw Bombay, "and if those people were here now, they'd say: 'Is all this pavement yours? You're living like a king.'" In blue jeans and black boots without socks, he's surrounded by banners, newspaper clippings, slogans and a donated bedspread. He picked up some leftover canvas from the Queen Mum's funeral. It was just blowing about, so he makes signs and he wants to talk about his signs, and about the kids, about the 200 plus infants who are dying every day in Iraq. STOP KILLING MY KIDS reads the banner above his canvas chair. It's the injustices he wants to talk about, rather than the time the rain flowed in gushes over his sleeping bag, the mice that come to nest in his sheepskin coat. "I don't mind them," Brian says of the mice. "It's the rats over there on the other side" - a finger towards the Houses of Parliament - "we have to look out for. They're killing my kids."

3.10pm

At one point I rub my nose. "Don't pick your nose or scratch your bum," says Brian. "Remember you're on CCTV." He remembers his first day on the pavement. "June 2, 01, the police came along and said: 'How long you going to be here Brian?' I said: 'As long as it takes.'"

5pm

A sleek green car exits the gates with a police escort, followed by an SUV. "That's Prescott in the lumpy car because he's a bigger fellow. That's Tony in front." There's no doubt for Brian that Tony's caught a glimpse of him. He's only across the road. "And I say, 'Come on Tony, I know you're a busy man, but this is ridiculous.' You want to know what the world's saying?"

And he's off to show the banners that have been given to him. There's a Korean flag from Hwang Hyo-bin ("She said to me, 'Please win, Brian'"). Enough Talk About War. Intelligent People Find Intelligent Solutions given by a Brazilian just before the bombing in Afghanistan ("She spelled intelligent with one L. And some idiots may laugh at that but I say to them, Can you speak Portuguese?").

6.35pm

They just want to get to the game, at least one of them does. The two Israelis are on their way to watch Maccabi Haifa vs Man United, and there's some bar showing it.

"We're not expecting anything," says the taller one. "Man United has 10 times the money."

But on the grass, Brian is already in discussion with the other one. "Our regime is completely different from the Palestinians," the young Israeli says. "We are democratically elected, for better or for worse."

"But what about Jenin?"

"Jenin was a big mistake. We lost soldiers."

"But how many Palestinians died?"

"Not as many people as you think."

"But how many people?"

"Maybe 30."

Brian looks out at us, then back.

"No, my friend, many more. Just take it on board. 100 buildings wiped out."

"Five minutes," the football fan announces. "We are leaving in five."

11pm

"Not a bad place for a drinks party," says a younger member of the Countryside Alliance.

11.45pm

The first mouse of the evening appears, and runs past the poster of George W Bush. It's the most photographed photo on Brian's wall, mostly by Americans who stand for a moment, looking at it with crossed arms. George W Bush The Outlaw Known As The Toxic Texan For Crimes Against The Planet SERIAL NATION KILLER.

12.30am

Brian has seven children and his wife is in Worcestershire. "It's like when I was a kid," he says when the car hooting has begun to die down. "And I lost a ball out in the ocean and I would be swimming towards it but as I was swimming towards it I was pushing the ball away. That's how I feel about my wife when I'm down here sometimes." He gets to see his children when they come to visit their grandmother near Ilford. "It's a flying visit."

1am

The Countryside Alliance is warned by a police officer not to play in the traffic.

4.30am

"You're not looking for a full-time job, are you?" Brian asks as he pulls the tarp over his head. "I could resign then." When he's sleeping, Brian looks like a blue lump from the street. The first jogger is already bouncing past the Houses of Parliament. The last drunk has wandered off. There are now four mice near the tarp and down low, the taste of exhaust is a mouthful. "Good night, God bless," says Brian from underneath the crinkled blue.

7am

The car hooting starts again but it's the world's most authoritative alarm clock, Big Ben, that wakes me. The rush-hour traffic has slowed in front of Brian's demonstration. "Good morning, asshole," a voice calls out to me from one of the cars. "Time to get a real job." Down the pavement the Countryside Alliance has just recorded the 1,000th toot on their clipboard. The day is blue-skied and the roll of cars goes on. "This is the most exhaust I've breathed in 40 years," says Nick Bucknall, who hails from Somerset. As I'm standing in the Countryside Alliance camp, the members start packing their car. I'm there alone for a moment amongst the signs and a red Ford drives by, slows down. A voice calls to me: "Go back to the fucking countryside."

9am

Brian and I are walking back from the toilet in the underground through the crowd of Countryside Alliance people. Everyone says hello to Brian. Brian smiles back.

11.30am

We're back with the Countryside Alliance. "What do you feel about people hooting their horns?" one of the older members asks. Brian stops and turns back to him. "Well, I don't think you need to be doing it through the night. It's not necessary, is it?" he asks. "In fact, it's bloody inconsiderate."

"But aren't you surprised at how many people in London are hooting for us?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't really given it a lot of thought."

"It's extraordinary, though, don't you think?"

"I'm here fighting against genocide. It just doesn't register, you know? I'm here talking about war."

"Are you coming to the march on Sunday?"

"Mate, I'm here," Brian says. More hooting in the background. "I'm here. Every day. All day."

The older man looks at him. "And how long do you think that's going to last?"